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Haniel Lon<> 



How shall we find a way to heal 

The terror of the slain, 
To seek them out, and make them feel 

They have not died in vain ? 



SEEGER 

The shapes of waking moments wearied him ; 

Heroic beauty stirred him as he slept; 

And so he lived his youth, and so he crept 
Back to old shadows beautiful and dim. 
But at the call to arms his eyes were grim — 

Dreams must be saved ! So he, the dream-adept, 

Seeing young Death afar where horror swept, 
Leapt with a lover's trembling in each limb. 
He sought her out he knew to be his maiden, 

And cried to her he flamed for as his bride; 
The thundering guns were viols for his suit, 
And iron shards his couch. The day was laden 

With scent of deadly blossoms, and he died. 
And now, wrapt with his maiden, he is mute. 

Haniel Long 



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